The Beautiful Flaws of Human Nature
by LightOfGreySkies
Summary: Sherlock feigns romantic feelings for John in an attempt to defeat Moriarty, but finds that the more intimately close he becomes with John, the harder it will be for it to be just pretend. Buckets of Johnlock and every emotion known to mankind. Will be Multi-chapter. SEASON 3 SPOILERS.
1. Chapter 1

"Check the box under the right drawer of your bedside shelf, all the incriminating evidence can be found there." The client looked utterly shocked at the impossibly quick wit of the detective that laid before her, who was sitting lazily on his armchair with his hand resting again his face, drowning in boredom. She had no reason to be surprised though, this was Sherlock Holmes we were talking about. Sherlock gestured for her to go. She was looking around the room in a state of confusion, as though she could find sense in the situation hiding behind the cleaning supplies beside the fireplace. Her feeble movements were wearing on Sherlock's patience.

"Next!" he shouted, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to not fall asleep. The client gasped slightly, taken aback, and then shuffled out of the flat.

"Oh dear brother," an all too familiar voice rose from outside the door. "Could you show even the slightest of manners?"

"What do you need, Mycroft?" Sherlock turned to see Mycroft Holmes standing in his doorway, leaning against his favourite umbrella. Mycroft invited himself inside, scowling briefly at the utter disarray of the flat. He then went to the kitchen, grabbed a cup of tea Mrs. Hudson had made, swept a stack of books off of the armchair beside Sherlock's and sat down.

"I see you are taking a break from your very important case. Based on the immense danger England may be in right now, that may not be a good idea." Mycroft looked intently at Sherlock, studying him and the mess surrounding him.

"I am working on it," Sherlock said, slightly annoyed. He sprang up off of the couch. "Where's my laptop?" he began searching the flat, knocking over stacks of books and making even more of a mess in the process.

"Brother you have an unnecessary number of laptops, and you cannot find a single one of the them?" Mycroft questioned with a raised eyebrow. "But I suppose, judging by the state of this place, I should not be surprised. Is the lack of a certain doctor getting to you?" In response, Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned his head toward Mycroft, his stoney face in a steady glare. Without diverting his gaze, Sherlock took his foot and pushed it against the nearby table, setting it a few centimeters from its correct position. His lips curled up smugly, satisfied with his triggering of Mycroft's OCD.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Are you sure you ever aged above ten years old?" He glanced at the turned table, and hastily shifted it back into place. "Can you please act like an adult? This is a very serious matter, people could be in danger. Especially John."

Sherlock's eyes widened, his face twisting into an expression of intent concentration and worry. "Of course," he muttered. "Moriarty certainly knows that I am not dead now, so there is little doubt that he will go after those I…"-he searched his mind for the right word, settling on- "care about. Obviously John included." Sherlock paced restlessly, his frustration with the situation coming to light. "But how can he even be alive?"

"That is your job to find out," Mycroft said calmly, "so I would recommend you take a seat in your mind palace with your laptops and solve it." Sherlock scowled, trying to deepen his focus.

"Where's John going to be tonight?" he asked, puzzling Mycroft.

"That doesn't seem relevant-"

"Oh but it is completely relevant. You keep constant tabs on him, you know exactly what he will be doing, and I want to talk to him. I feel we can help each other."

"What's in it for me?"

"If you don't then I will deduce things based on the condition of your suit."

"You mean tell me things I already know?" Mycroft raised his eyebrow once again. Sherlock was looking increasingly frazzled.

"Well fine," Sherlock said defiantely. "Would you tell me if the security of the world depended on it?"

"What could you possibly want with John that would be for security?" Mycroft scoffed and took a large sip of his tea.

"I need to date him," Sherlock replied calmly.

The tea in Mycroft's mouth made a dramatic departure, spraying all over the floor. His face twitched, trying to keep a calm demeanor, but unsure how to react to such news.

"Excuse me?" Mycroft said, wiping the tea from his lip, deeply incredulous upon the whole situation.

"You heard me," Sherlock's tone was still steady. His gaze was away from Mycroft and instead at his bulletin boards, so Mycroft couldn't read anything from his face. "It is all part of the plan to get Moriarty. He is very crafty, see, but I could be one step ahead of him. If he thinks I'm in love with John, and that such a love blinds my judgement, his guard will go down and I will get the upper hand. Is it not a flawless plan?"

"Hardly." Mycroft said, the situation making a lot more sense now. "How is this for a problem? How the hell do you expect Moriarty to believe this? He knows you, and is therefore well aware of your lack of ability to socialize in general, let alone with a romantic partner."

"Oh but you've missed something," Sherlock said with a small half smile. "Moriarty clearly knows that John…"-Sherlock's expression softened, and a twinge of sadness hit his eyes- "is someone I care about deeply and don't want to see hurt. After all, he used him multiple times to get to me. With this, I think he would have no problem believing such a thing, seeing as I pretended to die to save John. And I plan to make it very believable. The issues with Mary presence is more complicated, but still very handleable. She stated she went on an brief emergency trip to Scotland, but that is certainly not the case. During a brief visit to John's home to borrow his shampoo, I noticed her suitcase being much too full for a brief trip. The contents of the suitcase indicates she is heading toward a tropical climate, and the dark colours and sunglasses show that she does not wish to be noticed. I would say she is going to America, likely in the south, on business related to her past, business she certainly doesn't want John to know about or be involved in in any way."

"And your point is?" Mycroft asked, drumming his fingers impatiently.

"My point," Sherlock said, "is that Mary is very likely in danger if she is dealing with her past, which is likely due to the death of Magnussen and her involvement with that situation. John will eventually find out in some manner, leaving him quite vulnerable, and in need of the comfort of a close companion."

"So then you will swoop in and be his Prince Charming? Are you missing the obvious complication that could occur? Well, one of many." Mycroft's words caused Sherlock to blink, disappointed in himself for missing a detail. "No?" Mycroft continued, "So let me get this straight. You will pretend to date John Watson, for the sole reason of making Moriarty think you are weak and let him get overconfident, so you can defeat him? Even though John is married, and as he likes to remind us daily, not gay. And you are…"

"I am what?" Sherlock said defensively.

"You are more...sentimental than you have been in the past. So is it really completely out of the question for your imagined feelings for John Watson to become reality? Then he will become your actual weakness, and Moriarty will win." Sherlock did not immediately refute with a predictable pout as Mycroft expected. Instead, he looked away, his face in deep Sherlock-like thought, but his eyes showing signs of something else more emotional.

"Mycroft, I thought you were aware that I have always been married to my work. The purpose of this operation is to destroy Moriarty and save John, so I'm sure he would be happy to find out that I went to this much effort for him."

"Oh, Sherlock, you've never understood human nature. Anyway, do you really think he would fall for you too?" Sherlock had been pacing back and forth in the flat for the entirety of this conversation, but he stopped in his tracks. This caught him by surprise. "I didn't mean any malice, dear brother," Mycroft continued, "but I was simply saying that most people can barely stand your presence as a detective, so I would certainly not think people are lining up to be your partner. Not even John."

"Really, Mycroft? Have you not noticed how infatuated John is with me? If he considers an asshole like myself a friend, who knows where else it could go? Not to mention that he irons his shirts ever time he comes to see me, a gesture not made toward those you aren't trying to impress."

"Well I suppose we'll see," Mycroft said wryly.

"Yes we will," an annoyed Sherlock replied, "Now I'm sure you have important business to attend to."

"Oh, how did you guess?" Mycroft's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Get back to your case, Sherlock. And if it is so essential that you know, John is with Mike Stamford tonight, and will be back at his home late, probably around midnight. Don't be an idiot." He stood up, and with a brief twirl of his umbrella, walked out the door.

Sherlock sighed, glad his dastardly brother had departed. He plopped down on the couch, thinking about the conversation with Mycroft and perhaps if he had a point. Sherlock was not one to understand others emotions terribly well, let alone his own. He had always interpreted John as his "conveniently placed companion." But lately, with all this trying- to-make-friends business he was in, Sherlock felt maybe his feeling were something different, something he could not identify.

He was unsure of how John would react as well. The last time he thought John he would make John happy, he was punched in the face in various restaurant settings. Sherlock considered the fact that he truly didn't understand human nature, being a high functioning sociopath and all. But he already had experience in the dating game for the first time, though obviously not a mutually loving experience. But Sherlock felt he did a good job with Janine, so he assumed it would be like that for John as well. Seeing as they already had a close friendship it would hardly be a difficult leap. Sherlock had spent the past weeks planning this, working out as many details as he could. His largest road block was knowing that he could not get his own emotions in the way, because it could compromise both John and Sherlock in the battle against Moriarty.

But he was confident that his plan would at least get him somewhere with Moriarty. Sherlock hadn't heard anything since the two weeks since Moriarty's great return from the dead. Perhaps with his network destroyed, he was laying low for a while. Or perhaps his network is completely intact, and Sherlock had been deceived. He did not like either idea.

He just knew that he need Moriarty to stop hiding and come out and play the game. A relationship with John would have a better chance than just about anything to do so. Sherlock didn't have any idea what he was getting into, but he did know one thing.

The game was on. And Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are Player 1 and 2.

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**Author's Note:**

**Thank you very much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. This is one of my first fanfictions, so please review and tell me what you think! **

**Until next time, beautiful people!**


	2. Chapter 2

The outside was nearly pitch black, only illuminated by streetlights and the occasional passing car. John Watson was heading up the steps of his home, near exhaustion after a night out with Mike Stamford. He had thoroughly enjoyed himself though, a few hours in the pub did make for a lovely evening. He knew the home was to be empty, with Mary off on a brief trip. His wife did not tell him when she would be returning, or much of anything about where she was going. But John had decided when she left three days ago that it was better not to worry. _Although it would have been nice of her to at least answer her phone,_ John thought sourly. Despite this, John knew that whatever she was doing in Scotland, she could take care of herself. He was lonely in his big empty house, but he could cope.

He opened his front door, finding that is was unlocked for some reason (he could have sworn he locked it on his way out). The darkness of the living room was immediately flooded with light as John flipped the switch. He was rightfully astonished to see a large mass on his couch, curled into a ball in a very familiar overcoat.

"Sherlock? Is that you?" John called out. There was no one else that would sensibly be laying on his sofa in the middle of the night. Although John's life did tend to lack sensibility. The couch blob shifted, and the curly hair and shapely face of Sherlock Holmes was revealed, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

"Oh hello John," Sherlock said calmly. He took a look at the clock above the television. "Mycroft was a few minutes off. He's so unreliable."

John was standing in the doorway, beyond confused and not knowing if this situation even justified a reaction. This was Sherlock Holmes, doing bizarre things was not a new development. But coming to his empty house in the middle of the night?

"Sherlock," John said, firmly but without any sort of anger or bitterness. "What the hell are you doing here? Why come to my house at midnight?"

"I didn't come here at midnight. I've been here all evening," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. John sighed, but chuckled a bit in his mind, realizing that this is not an out of the ordinary happening when Sherlock is involved.

"Okay, but why?"

"Right. Can I sleep here tonight?"

"Well it seems you've already decided to do that!" There was a frustration rising in John, but a sort of a caring frustration, the kind one would get if their child kept waking them up from nightmares or something. "But what is wrong with Baker Street?"

"Nothing really. I was just looking for a change in scenery. And I figured you were.." Sherlock paused, seemingly searching for the right word, "lonely. Being in a quiet and vacant house for so long, I figured you wanted a bit of company. So may I?" Sherlock gave an attempt at a pleasant smile, the result awkward but still meaningful.

John walked from the doorway over to the couch, studying Sherlock, trying to make sense of this. John's face was full of confused thoughtfulness, while Sherlock had a sort of warm expression, something that didn't seem to fit Sherlock's usual cold demeanor. John considered why he was actually here. He considered that perhaps Sherlock didn't come because John was lonely, but because _he_ was. Sherlock was a human like them all after all, and perhaps Baker Street was getting boring and lonesome. Or maybe Sherlock was just doing experiments on him again.

Either way, John knew there was no way he could bring himself to force Sherlock to leave. It was strange of him to be there, but there was no reason to reject his presence. In fact, it might be an opportunity to catch up. He and Sherlock had been distant lately, with John's married life and work, and Sherlock's cases, they hadn't had much time to spend together.

"Okay. But you sleep on the couch, I still get my own room. We don't need to get the rumours started again."

"Yes, those have been on hold due to your recent marriage," Sherlock said absently, then snapped his attention back onto John. "Come, sit down. How was your night with Mike? I would estimate your blood alcohol at .12 if you were wondering, but it has yet to really kick in. I see that you had three shots of Smirnoff, although the bartender was stingy on the last one, much to your dissatisfaction, then-"

"Sherlock, no. Stop," John said. _Why ask how my night was if you already already bloody know,_ he wondered, then let out a snort of laughter. He sat down on the couch, prompting Sherlock to move his feet. "I know you love to show everyone how clever you are but there is no need." John crossed his legs and relaxed into the couch. He didn't drink enough to affect his judgement severely yet, but he certainly wasn't as mentally deft as he would be sober.

"It's so much fun being brilliant though," Sherlock said. "But I suppose you wouldn't know. So how has your life been as of late?" The time away from him almost made John forget how arrogant Sherlock tends to be. But after all these years, he has gotten used to it.

"Oh, not bad, not bad," John said, "Mary is away, but I am coping. She should be home soon, just a brief trip." This seemed to pique Sherlock's interest. His eyes turned toward John as his gaze became grave.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock looked very serious, staring dead into the eyes of John.

"Sorry, what?" John said.

"You don't have any idea where Mary is or what she is doing. She said Scotland, but due to recent events, you should question that absolute trust you have in her." John looked puzzled at first, then sighed deeply, his gaze fixed on Sherlock's watercolour eyes.

"Sherlock. I know that my trust in her has certainly hit a road bump. Well, more like crashed into a tree. But I want some semblance of balance in my life. It seems like that's been too much to ask. But if I just leave her to keep her secrets and she can come home and live a normal life with me, that is all I could ask for. Just a whisper of normal." John's expression was grave now too, and he felt doubt in some of his words. He didn't want an ex-assassin or whatever the hell she is for a wife. But he loved Mary Morstan, so he would just have to come to terms with it.

Sherlock was staring straight ahead, his fingers folded together before his face, his index fingers rested on his lower lip, deep in thought. After a drawn out silence, Sherlock finally spoke quietly.

"Normal does seem to steer clear of you, John Watson." John let out a humourless laugh, and nodded. The silence continued, Sherlock deep in thought, and John exhausted from his long night. They were both in their own realms of thought, but enjoyed each other's company none-the-less. The room was absolutely quiet, besides the hum of the heater, and the barely audible breathing of Sherlock as he bathed in deep thought.

The calming silence was violently broken when the booming sound of the front door being smashed open rung through the house. John and Sherlock's heads shot up. John was not afraid, the war does that to a man. Sherlock's eyes were wide, but his thoughts were hard to read as always. The noise was followed by a chorus of thundering footsteps of several people invading the house.

John turned to see five men, all wearing business suits, looking very alert. The man in front of them, assumably their leader, stopped in his tracks when he noticed the two men on the couch.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He had an American accent. "Is this the residence of… what does she call herself nowadays? Ah, that's right. Mary Morstan."

"Who wants to know?" John challenged, trying to stand his ground like a growling puppy, altogether powerless but defiant none-the-less.

"The CIA," the man said threateningly. "Now I suppose you must be John Watson, the husband of our fugitive. I am not classified to tell you anything else. Just know these three things. This property is no longer yours, you will be shot if you do not leave immediately, and you will never be seeing Mary Morstan again."

John felt a pang of deep sickness in his stomach, the reality of the situation hitting in staccato bursts of anger and confusion and agonizing hurt. He stood up, trying desperately to stand the ground that they were trying to bury him beneath. He walked over to the man, being towered over, but he didn't care.

"What have you done," John said through gritted teeth, "to my wife?" The CIA agent seemed very underwhelmed. He flashed a small, cruel smile.

"Oh, we didn't do anything. Everything that happened to her, she brought onto herself. Now there is something we need of hers here. Now if you don't want to leave this world the same way Mary did, then I would encourage you to leave." The man reached into his jacket and took out a pistol.

John's entire body was shaking in fury and in fear he tried not to show. He didn't want to get on the wrong side of these presumably powerful men, but… Mary.

They are lying. _They had to be lying._ Mary cannot be dead, she is strong, an assassin, and she wouldn't go down without a fight. _But maybe that was precisely the situation she was in. A fight_. John stood stock still before the very tall man that he had come to hate more than anything in the world, his only movements the trembling in his fists as he itched to go in for the attack, even though logic told him it was a terrible idea.

"John," Sherlock said quietly from behind him. "We must go. I'm very sorry." The graveness in his tone suggested that he, as always, understood the situation better than John. Sherlock stood up and took hold of the back of John's shoulder. There was none of Sherlock's usual refute or arrogance or altogether overconfidence. He stared at John with an expression of "I am very sorry" and led him to the door. where the group of agents stepped out of the way, letting them outside.

' The door slammed behind them. Immediately, a shout of orders was heard, and the sound of stomping and the crashing sound of the house being thrown into a fray was evident.. John stood utterly still, his eyes squeezed shut in desperate hope that none of this was happening and it was just a dream.

"John.." Sherlock said, his hand still on John's shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

"So it's true?" John nearly whispered, "Mary is dead." Sherlock sighed deeply, then spoke very quietly, avoiding eye contact with John who was turned away from him.

"The men in your home were certainly not CIA agents, they did not show their badges, and their guns were not standard issue in the CIA. But clearly, they were enemies of Mary, and based on what we know about her past, she has a lot of very dangerous people that want her dead. While not the US government, these were clean cut workers, clearly criminal, working fo-"

"Sherlock," John said, "I don't care who they are. Is my wife dead?" Sherlock sighed deeply again, and there was a long, agonizing pause.

"I'm afraid the evidence points toward that. Mary is dead, John. I am so sorry," Sherlock said slowly, like he was struggling to force himself to say the words.

The next several hours didn't feel real to John. His memory was fogged by an onslaught of swirling emotions that he couldn't even begin to describe. He had vague memories of grabbing onto Sherlock, his hands grabbing his shirt. They were in a taxi together. The only thing John could hear was his heart slowly pounding in his ears. Everything seemed to be in slow motion, Sherlock's speech sounding distant.

"John. John! Look at me," Sherlock said, putting his hand on John's chin and having his face close to his. "It is going to be okay John, I am taking you home. Alcohol may have been a bad combination here."

The rest of the night was a complete blur, with many spots missing altogether from his memory. But he remembered what happened to Mary, and he remembered one thing he said to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, I'm alone. I don't have anyone to love me." He may have imagined the response, but that didn't even matter, because it filled a slight cavity in the gaping hole in his heart that Mary had created in her death.

"You are not alone, John. I am always here," Sherlock's voice resonated in his mind until his consciousness slipped finally away.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Hello readers, I hope you enjoyed. I plan on updating weekly every Saturday. And please review and tell me what you thought! Reviews will make my day. ^^ The true Johnlock will begin next chapter, and escalate from there, so stay tuned!**


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock sat hunched over on his desk, his eyes hollow and body tired after a sleepless night. He was scrawling notes into his journal.

_Sherlock/John (perhaps should I call it Johnlock? Shorthand sort of thing) Behavior Log - Day One_

_Last night's tragedy will psychologically wound John in ways I am incapable of understanding. However, it's timing seems to be intertwined nearly flawlessly with our goals. In the eve of Mary's death, John's unstable heart will be begging for the presence of anyone who would selflessly console it, preferably a close friend. As of recently, John has stated that I fit into this category not only as a trusted companion, but as, in his words, "a best friend." I hope to find that my lack of understanding of human nature does not play a troubling role. I often find that the flaws of human nature do not apply to me, that I am above the immense weakness that can be called love. Because in truth, love only leads to sensitivity, and therefore error. I will not let any personal feelings block me from the ultimate goal of this endeavour. Although my opinion of John Watson is very high, I cannot endanger him by adding genuine emotions to the mix. For now, John is vulnerable, and I will use that as an opportunity to work my way into his heart fond feelings._

_**-Sherlock Holmes**_

Sherlock leaned back and sighed deeply when he finished his notes. The sun was beginning to peek into the window of his bedroom, the early signs of daylight flooding his exhausted eyes. But he refused to show a single sign of his weariness to John though, he needed energy.

He tucked his notebook behind his dusty books, a place where John would never look. John finding his notes would certainly end in disaster. Sherlock jumped up from the chair and made his way to the kitchen, his bathrobe strings wagging behind him. He yawned as he put together a cup of coffee, then, after moving the jar of toes he had been looking for, he sat in his armchair. And now, he will wait.

After Sherlock's third cup of coffee, John had still not emerged from his room. There was no hurry, as Sherlock had been spending his time planning how to win over John and act like a human. Not surprisingly, this process is not a brief one.

The past night had been miserable, what with John vomiting uncontrollably and such. Sherlock was heavily considering the possibility that alcohol was not the only thing that accounted for John's condition, but he did not dwell on this. Why wasn't an important question while he was fearing for his friend's life. Sherlock sighed as he vividly remembered carrying John through the Baker Street door, the only signs of his consciousness being occasional groans and gagging. It was a dreadful experience for Sherlock, one that had haunted his night sleep away.

He grimaced as he continued to recall the night, him carrying John to his former bedroom, and sitting next to him on the bedside, until his sleep resembled being peaceful. After a while, John's breathing became normal and he slipped into sleep. Sherlock took John's ice cold hand in his own, and gently placed it on his own cheek, keeping it there motionlessly for a few seconds.

_That was simply to assure that he had a pulse,_ Sherlock thought defensively. _I can't let anything that resembles emotions in the way of what is important._ Sherlock's eye twitched slightly, deeply uncomfortable with that rare feeling of self doubt that dwelled in him.

Sherlock was beginning to feel the buzz of the five cups of coffee kicking in. Sleepless nights were not uncommon for him, and coffee served as a good remedy. Sherlock was beginning to grow tired of waiting, but nonetheless sat patiently on his chair, his deep thought passing the time.

Eventually, Sherlock heard a creaking noise coming from John's room. His attention shot up, and he stared intently at the door for a few seconds. After a moment, the door opened very slowly. A disheveled John Watson, whose hair was sticking up wildly and still wearing his jumper from last night, stumbled through the door, blinking from the morning light pouring into his vision. His eyes caught Sherlock's.

"What happened last night?" John muttered, clearly not fully awake. He gazed around the room, then nearly fell over. Sherlock rose from his chair and rushed over to support him. He put his hand on John's shoulder, leading him to a place to sit down. "I...I think I must have been dreaming. I feel kind of dizzy." He leaned onto Sherlock, who was beside him with his hands balancing John. "What am I doing here, Sherlock?"

"Here, come sit down," Sherlock said, guiding a dazed John to his armchair. He sat down, and seemed to get a bit of his sense back after a few seconds. Sherlock pushed a glass of water over to him, which he downed in a few large gulps. John rubbed his head for a few moments, no doubt aching in the immense pain of hangovers. Sherlock sat down on his own chair, and eye contact was established between the two men.

"So," John said, a lot more conscious than before, "What happened last night?" Sherlock let out a barely audible sigh. He had no idea how to tell John. Sherlock recalled the lessons he had taught himself on being a normal human and consulting someone in grief. So, here goes nothing.

"John…" Sherlock began, his tone grave. But it didn't sound right. "John," this time with attempted cheerfulness. That was even worse. "John...no, John. John…." he experimented with different tones of voice, as John sat before him, looking beyond perplexed.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Right. John," he said for the last time, then leaned forward toward John. "So what do you remember?"

"Hell, I don't know. It was all a bit of a daze, really, I'm not sure what was real or not. I remember someone coming into my house. Wait, maybe that was you. No I remember now. There were CIA agents, they made us leave. But why…?" John had no idea. Sherlock flinched ever-so-slightly, having difficulty getting himself to bring his next words.

"They brought news about Mary." With this, John's eyes widened and I look of deep distress spread across his face.. Sherlock could almost see his memories flooding back.

John's gaze became distant, toward the window but staring at nothing in particular, and said in a faint, tortured whisper, "Mary.. Sherlock, is it true? Is it really, really true?" The words hung thickly in the air.

"I'm very sorry John." John leaned over, his hands on either sides of his head so that Sherlock could not see his face. It was very barely noticeable, but Sherlock could see an unsteadiness as he looked past John's body. He was trembling. Sherlock couldn't tell if it was from anger or crying or something else.

Sherlock had spent a lot of energy to plan for a moment of grieving such as this, his plan laid out in a step by step strategy. But seeing John breaking down before him, his muscles unbelievably tense and still and his face not showing anything but really showing everything, all the files organized in his mind palace neatly labeled For Grief were shuffling away in the wind, leaving him a dull feeling of emotion that he could not understand, and even more unbelievable, he had absolutely nothing to say.

There was a very long silence. The two men sat across from each other. John was breathing deeply but not making any sort of eye contact, with his face still in the shadow of his shaking hands. Sherlock knew he had to say something.

"I know that you are probably quite sick of grieving, after all this. Sorry about that again," Sherlock said, leaning forward and putting his hand on John's knee. John looked up at him, and their eyes locked. His eyes had dashes of red in them, but there were no sign of actual tears. "I will support you how I can. You can stay here as long as you want to. I would like to help you however I can."

John looked surprised. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"

"What are you talking about? You're the not okay one here."

"You are showing concern… almost compassion. That's not like the Sherlock I have gotten used to. I mean, you're almost acting like a human." John's onslaught of grief had been partially replaced by utter confusion.

"Well I suppose tragedy brings out new things in all of us," Sherlock said with a brief half smile. "Now, how do you want to get better? Mrs. Hudson could make tea, I could play something for you on the violin, or perhaps we could to the see Gabe and see if there are any interesting cases we could start. What do you think?"

John cracked a small smile and relaxed his muscles a bit, leaning back a bit and releasing Sherlock's grip on his knee. "First of all," he began. "Calm yourself. I still feel like shit after last night, my head is throbbing. And seriously, who is Gabe?"

"Gabe Lestrade? The incompetent D.I.?"

"I should have known. And you can go out if you want, but I just to stay here and think." I didn't know he did that too, Sherlock thought, then corrected himself. "Right now all I really want is for life to make sense, and some Tylenol." Sherlock picked up the pain medicine beside him he had readied the night before, and tossed it over the John.

"Thanks," he said, swallowing three. "Now how about things making sense? Do you have that on your table too?" Sherlock chuckled, and John couldn't help but to laugh a bit. They laughed together, in a pained and forced way, but laughing nonetheless.

After the laughter died out, Sherlock said, "I will tell you what you want to know, if you think any information will comfort you. Other than that, I will help you however I can." Sherlock leaned forward and put his hand on John's. Sherlock's hand wrapped slightly around John's, and they rested together on the arm of the chair. He felt somewhat awkward about it, but John didn't seem to mind, he was still very confused. Their eyes met once again, their heads closer than they had been before. "I want you to be happy John. That means more to me than you can imagine."

For Sherlock, the strangest part was that he meant every single one of his words, far more than he had ever intended to.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Holy buckets I'm sorry it took so long! School has had me losing my mind with stress. I will update as often as I can but with everything that is going on don't expect a whole lot.**

**But on a better note, I hope you enjoyed, please review, because reviews are my favorites things ever. And yeah, have a lovely day ^^**


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